The slender, dark-skinned man was waiting patiently for Claude Bernier when the photographer reached the landing of his third-floor walk-up. Bernier hesitated even though his visitor was dressed in a conservative suit and carrying a briefcase. He had been robbed at gunpoint recently and the man looked sinister enough to make him uneasy, “Mr. Bernier?” the man asked in a heavy Spanish accent. “Yes?”
Bernier answered warily. “My name is Juan Fulano and I am here to do business with you.” Photographers-even those with Claude’s talent-had to scramble to make a living, and the mention of business erased the last of his doubts. He unlocked his door and invited Fulano inside.
The apartment was small but clean. The walls were decorated with Bernier’s photographs and the works of friends. Claude put down the bag of groceries he was carrying on the table in his narrow kitchen.
“I don’t have much in the fridge,” he apologized, “but I could make us some coffee.” “Not necessary.” Bernier led Fulano into the living room and offered him the most comfortable chair. Fulano sat down and carefully crossed his left leg over his right. “How can I help you?”
Bernier asked. “I am interested in buying a copy of a photograph that was originally purchased from the Pitzer-Kraft Gallery in late February by a lawyer named Gene Arnold.” “Are you with the police?”
“No, Mr. Bernier. Why do you ask?” “The police in Portland, Oregon, called me about that photograph. Do you know that Arnold was murdered?” Bernier’s visitor nodded. “Why did the Oregon authorities contact you?” “They want a copy of the photograph, too.” “Have you sent it to them?” “No. I just found the negative. It was misplaced.
I’m mailing a print to Portland tomorrow.” Fulano smiled. “I wonder if I could induce you to sell me a copy of the photograph as well.”
“Sure. I can make another copy.” “How much do you require?” Bernier did a quick calculation based on the quality of Fulano’s clothes.
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” he said. “A reasonable price, but the photograph would be worth five thousand to me if you would do me a small favor.” Bernier managed to conceal his surprise and excitement.
He had never sold a photograph for that much money. “What would you want me to do?” “Do the authorities in Oregon know that you’ve located the negative of the photograph?” “No. I just found it this morning.”
“The five thousand is yours if you wait to send the photograph until I tell you to do so.” “I don’t know,” Bernier answered, suddenly worried. “It’s a murder investigation. The detective I spoke with thought the people in the picture might be involved in Mr. Arnold’s death.” “I, too, am interested in discovering the identity of Mr.
Arnold’s killer. I have no desire to obstruct a police investigation.”
“Then why do you want me to wait to send the photograph to the police?” Bernier’s visitor leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Is five thousand dollars a fair price for your photograph?” “Yes.” “Is it more than fair?” Bernier hesitated, certain that the man knew he had inflated the price. “It’s very generous.” “Then I would hope that you would permit me to simply say that your assistance is important to me.” Bernier considered the proposition for a moment more before accepting. “Do you think you could have the photograph for me by this evening?” Fulano asked. “I have an early flight?” “That shouldn’t be a problem. Come by at eight.” Bernier’s visitor opened his briefcase and handed him a stack of currency. “A down payment,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind cash.”